Vainly Harriet struggled, but he did not release her until he chose to do so. When he did, his eyes were cold. ‘Once I believed such kisses came from your heart, Miss Latimer. I was deceived, for you do not possess one. Sebastian Crale is fortunate in his disappointment.’
‘You are insolent,’ she hissed and slapped his face with all the strength she could muster. He laughed mirthlessly.
‘And you are self-seeking. Your only desire is the glory of discovering the Nile’s source. For that end you used both me and Crale. You will use me no longer, Miss Latimer.’
She cried out in protest, but he seized hold of her shoulders and propelled her through the cabin door. ‘Send Narinda to me,’ he ordered curtly. ‘I need water and laudanum.’
Harriet found that she was shaking as much as the stricken doctor. How dare he accuse her of being self-seeking? She was doing nothing more than anyone else taking part in the expedition. He was arrogant, cruel and grossly unfair. Her lips felt burned and bruised by his kisses. She had spent the past weeks convincing herself that she had been suffering from a schoolgirl infatuation that was now under control. In one crushing embrace he had destroyed that illusion for ever. Her feelings for him were too intense ever to be under her control.
‘Mr Beauvais wishes water and laudanum taken to Dr Walther’s cabin,’ she said, approaching Narinda where she sat sewing one of Raoul’s exquisitely lace-edged shirts.
Narinda raised her eyes from her work and looked at Harriet with such venom that Harriet instinctively stepped backwards.
‘You shall not have him,’ she said, rising to her feet in a fluid feline movement. ‘You shall never have him!’ and she moved swiftly away to carry out Raoul’s bidding, leaving Harriet shocked and shaken and ashamed of the intensity of her feelings.
‘From now on we anchor in midstream of an evening,’ Raoul said when he finally emerged from Dr Walther’s cabin. ‘Perhaps in the centre of the river the mosquitoes will not be so dense.’
‘How is Dr Walther?’ Sebastian asked, his grey eyes betraying an almost frightened anxiety.
‘Sick,’ Raoul replied tersely.
Narinda glided to his side, whispering to him in Arabic, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her eyes triumphant as they met Harriet’s.
Harriet turned her head away. How did the girl know of her feelings for Raoul? In what way had she betrayed herself?
She said, ‘I will nurse Dr Walther through the night,’ and without waiting for permission, walked swiftly away, her skirt whipping around her ankles.
The little Circassian had soon left the sick man when Raoul was no longer there. Her behaviour when Raoul was present was markedly different from her behaviour when he was absent. Her berating of the native boys when Raoul was not in earshot amused both Sebastian and Mr Frome. It saddened Mark Lane who thought she should show more Christian charity and angered Harriet. The girl was a shrew with no regard for the feelings of others. How could Raoul be so deceived by her? Her soft words were capable of turning within seconds to tart reprimands. Harriet sponged Dr Walther’s fevered brow. Presumably Raoul knew nothing of that side of Narinda’s nature, and if he did know, was uncaring.
Daily Dr Walther’s condition worsened and daily the air became more humid, the banks greener, the flies more prolific.
‘I am dying,’ Dr Walther said to her in a moment of lucidity. ‘Dying!’
‘Nonsense.’ Even to her own ears her optimism was hollow.
She tensed as the cabin door opened and Raoul entered. Her nightly nursing of the doctor had gradually became a daytime vigil as well. The natives sailing the dahabiah and the barges had become increasingly mutinous and Raoul’s attention was devoted to keeping control of the straggle of boats as their way became hampered by rotting vegetation and the river no longer ran smoothly but merged between islands of floating debris and swamps. She had not slept properly for a week. Damp wisps of hair clung to her forehead, curling forward on her cheeks. Her garments were creased and crumpled, her face drawn and exhausted.
He said roughly, ‘How long is it since you slept?’
‘I don’t know. Two days … Three …’
‘I thought Narinda was helping you?’
Harriet’s exhausted eyes were astonished. The Circassian had never entered the cabin since Raoul had left it. Raoul’s mouth tightened.
‘I ordered her to take over from you at eight-hour stretches. Has she not been doing so?’
She most certainly had not, but Harriet was not going to descend to Narinda’s level of pettiness. She said tiredly, ‘I prefer to nurse the doctor myself.’
‘You are on the point of collapse.’ His voice held a depth of feeling that startled her. ‘ Go to your cabin and rest. I will tend the doctor.’
‘But Narinda …’
‘Narinda is no fit companion for a dying man,’ he said abruptly.
Harriet’s shocked eyes flew to Dr Walther. He was unconscious, shaking convulsively, his clothing and bedding wet with sweat.
‘I’ve tended him as diligently as I did my own father,’ she said, a break in her voice.
His hand rested on her shoulder, the hard lines of his mouth softening.
‘You have been magnificent,’ he said. ‘Now rest.’
She gazed up at him wonderingly. His eyes were warm and appraising and she could feel herself succumbing once more to his strange charm. The hand on her shoulder was restraining. She remembered their last encounter in the same cabin. The hurtful words – the brutal kiss.
‘Harriet,’ he said, and his voice thickened as he drew her towards him.
‘Excuse me.’ She twisted from his grasp, running from the cabin to her own, locking the door behind her and leaning against it, her heart pounding. Dear Lord, but she had nearly entered his arms of her own volition. Not even the presence of his mistress was enough to save her from temptation. In future she would ensure that she was never alone with him. She would cultivate Mark Lane’s company. She would not be so indifferent to Sebastian. His attentions had, at least, been honourable. Her tortured mind sank into the oblivion of sleep.
When she awoke it was evening. She changed one lot of bedraggled clothing for another and brushed her hair vigorously, knotting it into a sleek coil in the nape of her neck. The rest had done her good. Her face no longer looked so pinched or white.
On deck she found Sebastian and Wilfred Frome smoking cigars and dispiritedly discussing the increasing vegetation and swampland into which they were entering.
‘Is Mr Beauvais still with Dr Walther?’ she asked Mark Lane, who was sitting at a makeshift table calculating the distance they had travelled that day.
‘Yes.’ He put his pen down. ‘I am afraid there is very little hope for his life.’
The air was alive with the sound of insects and fireflies swarmed thickly around the lamp illuminating his work.
Narinda crossed the deck with easy grace, her flowing robes shimmering, a jug of lime juice in her hands as she disappeared below the deck.
‘Refreshments for Mr Beauvais,’ Mark Lane said with a smile. ‘It is truly uplifting to witness such devotion.’
Harriet bit back the sharp retort that rose to her lips. For a man of the cloth Reverend Lane had some peculiar ideas as to what was uplifting.
‘Goose for our dinner tonight,’ he said. ‘Sebastian shot a whole flock of them this afternoon. Ducks as well. Hashim will do us proud.’
‘Yes.’ She had barely spoken to Hashim since boarding the dahabiah. He travelled on the largest of the barges, in charge of stores, cooking and the Sudanese native boys who crewed the vessel. Every evening when they had anchored, the fruits of his labours were transported from the barge to the dahabiah. He had expressed no surprise at finding her amongst their party. His sharp black eyes had flicked away from Harriet to Raoul to Narinda and he had returned to his barge grateful that he would be some distance away when the inevitable storm broke.
Harriet moved away and allowed Reverend Lane to cont
inue his calculations. She had no desire to join Sebastian or Wilfred Frome. Mr Frome was already declaring that there could be no navigable channel through the swampland they were entering and Harriet found his pessimism depressing. She walked to the dahabiah’s prow and stood, gazing down into the black, swirling water. At the moment, at least, a channel was open to them and they were continuing at a reasonable pace. How long it would last no one knew. From the distance came the roar of a prowling lion. She shivered. Hippos had made their way almost impossible at times but she had watched them with fascination. The crocodiles she had long since become accustomed to; the monkeys she had found amusing and the lizards intriguing. But the nightly roars of the lions filled her with nothing but fear. Eventually they would have to leave the boats and continue their journey by horse and mule. There would be no water for protection against the marauding lions: only their wits and their guns. She was so immersed in her thoughts that she was unaware of Narinda stepping quietly once more on to the deck.
The Circassion’s lustrous eyes were malevolent. She knew very well of her master’s love for the English girl for he had told her of it and of his intentions the minute he had returned to Khartoum. What had happened then Narinda had no way of knowing. She knew only that she had him once more to herself and had exulted in the fact. Now he was turning against her, furiously angry because she had not assisted the English girl in her nursing of the German. She had seen their savage embrace and she knew that every day he was becoming more distant from her, his brooding thoughts centred entirely on the girl who stood before her in the darkness, gazing down into the deep depths of the river.
Narinda glanced behind her. The priest had disappeared, his table empty. In the distance the two Englishmen were talking, a bottle of brandy at their feet; their glasses full. Narinda moved swiftly.
Harriet felt a violent blow in the centre of her back and fell forward, grasping vainly at the shallow rail. As she did so a demon-like push sent her plunging head-first into the ink black river.
She sank in blind terror, kicking and struggling, fighting for survival. Choking on the filthy water, she surfaced, gasping for breath. The darkened shape of the dahabiah was already several yards away as she screamed desperately for help. Then, above her screams, she heard the unmistakable slithering of crocodiles down the bank and into the water. Her screams rose, demented with terror.
On the dahabiah shouts rang out and lanterns were rushed to the deck rails.
Water closed over head. Monstrous, trailing things caught at her legs, her arms. She fought upwards, breaking the surface once more, screaming his name.
He dived from the prow and as he did so Sebastian and Wilfred Frome shot rifle shot after rifle shot above her struggling head towards the bank at the unseen but approaching predators.
‘For the love of God!’
He had her in his grasp and then they both submerged as she clung to him frantically. She felt a sharp blow to her jaw and then nothing until she was hauled like a beached fish aboard the dahabiah and laid on the deck, retching and sobbing with fear and relief.
The last rifle shot rang out. Raoul stood above her, panting, water streaming from his hair, his sodden shirt almost transparent.
‘Have you no brains?’ he yelled, his face contorted with fury. ‘ I warned everyone of the dangers of falling overboard! You nearly killed us both!’
She pushed her streaming hair from her eyes and struggled into a sitting position.
‘I didn’t fall in!’ she yelled back at him as Sebastian, Wilfred and Mark Lane surrounded them with lanterns held high. ‘ I was pushed!’
He laughed harshly. ‘ Who by? The Archangel Gabriel?’
‘I don’t know by whom, but I can guess!’ Her wet skirts clung to her as she rose to her feet.
‘Was it Reverend Lane?’ he asked with scathing sarcasm. ‘Or was it Mr Frome or Sebastian Crale? Or perhaps it was me? Perhaps I threw you overboard for the sheer pleasure of it and then risked life and limb to retrieve you!’
Harriet swivelled round, searching the dark deck. Narinda stood some distance away, her hands folded demurely before her, her long-lashed eyes expressionless.
‘By her!’ Harriet cried, storming through the circle of men and standing pantingly before Narinda. ‘ You pushed me!’
Narinda raised delicate eyebrows, stretching her hand out, palm upwards in incredulity. ‘ I? I have been nursing the good doctor. Why do you speak to me like this?’
‘Because you tried to kill me!’ Harriet replied, beside herself with fury.
Narinda smiled, disappointed at the failure of her actions but relishing the sight of the English girl’s dishevelment. The gloating, mocking smile was more than Harriet could bear. She raised her hand and slapped Narinda soundly across her cheek.
Her arm was wrenched so violently that she nearly fainted as she was whirled around.
‘Don’t ever lay hands on her again!’ In the blood-red light of the lamp he looked like a demon out of hell. ‘She has had enough such treatment from the likes of you!’ He hurled her away from him and circled the crying Narinda with his arms. Harriet felt as if she were going mad. She was the one who had nearly been murdered and the would-be murderess was the one being comforted!
‘Have some brandy,’ Sebastian was saying, pressing a glass into her hand. She drank the unfamiliar liquid gratefully and then, when Mr Frome refilled the empty glass, she allowed Sebastian to draw her comfortingly close. He, at least, was constant. She said at last,
‘I must change.’
He nodded, looking down at her, concern in his eyes. She forced a smile.
‘I am quite recovered, Sebastian. There is no need to look so anxious.’
‘I was worrying for your safety. I wish to God we had never embarked on this expedition. Walther is dying. We are surrounded by swamps and now you have fallen overboard and nearly drowned.’
She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed herself away. ‘I did not fall. That girl pushed me.’
Sebastian smiled affectionately. ‘Narinda is as light as a bird. She could not possibly have done so.’
‘That bird has claws!’ Harriet said tartly and marched indignantly in her soaking skirts to her cabin.
Not even Sebastian believed her. The brief empathy that had grown up between her and Raoul earlier in the day had been extinguished as if it had never existed. Which, she thought as she took off her wet garments, it might very well not have done. She was sure of nothing any longer; except of one thing. She had not fallen. She had been pushed and Narinda was the person responsible.
The next day the scenery was nightmarish, the river almost stagnant. Dead trees reared starkly from the water. Vulture-like birds sat menacingly on the branches. There was no clear channel. The river diverged into scores of narrow waterways through head-high papyrus reeds, and rotting vegetation.
‘Sudd,’ Sebastian said, his face ashen as he eyed the hideous green swamp that surrounded them, stretching limitlessly to the horizon. ‘ How the devil do we free ourselves of it?’
‘By persistence,’ Raoul said and Harriet noticed signs of strain on his hard-boned face, for the first time.
She moved past him and he said unexpectedly, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To Dr Walther.’
He nodded. For once there seemed no anger in him; only intense concentration. If they were to free themselves from the swamp every decision taken had to be the right one and he, and he alone, was the decision maker.
By the evening of the next day Harriet knew that Dr Walther was on the point of death. Weakly she raised herself from his bunkside and went in search of Raoul.
‘Is he conscious?’ Raoul asked, pushing his compass and papers aside and rising to his feet.
‘Barely.’ Together they hurried below decks to the cramped, steamy cabin. Dr Walther’s eyes flickered open. Weakly he patted Harriet’s hand as she knelt beside him.
‘She is a good girl,’ he murmured. ‘A good girl.’ The
re was a faint smile on his lips as Raoul bent over him.
‘Goodbye, dear friend,’ he said, and his last breath rasped in his throat and ceased.
Harriet covered her face with her hands and began to cry. Lightly, so lightly that afterwards she wondered if it had been her imagination, Raoul touched her hair and turned on his heel.
They buried Dr Walther on the only dry ground that could be found: a tiny island covered with tree lilies, their bouquet of leaves like glistening bayonets. As Mark Lane read the funeral service Sebastian slipped his arm comfortingly around her shoulders and she did not draw away. Since the angry scene between herself and Raoul she had become grateful for his companionship. It was easier to sit and talk with Sebastian in the evenings than to sit alone with nothing to divert her attention from the sight of Raoul and Narinda.
She turned her head away from the sight of Narinda sitting serenely at Raoul’s feet as he worked at his papers, and concentrated once more on the game of chess she was playing with Sebastian. She leaned over to move a knight and her bent head came in close contact with Sebastian’s. Raoul watched through narrowed eyes and there was a flexing of muscles along his jaw line. She had spurned his advances and encouraged the Englishman. Why then had she not accepted Sebastian Crale’s proposal of marriage? It was obvious that he was besotted with her. He saw Sebastian’s hand over Harriet’s as he guided her next move and he felt the pulse in his temple begin to throb.
Narinda looked up at his grim profile and across to where his eyes rested. The English girl. His thoughts were constantly on the English girl. Tiny teeth bit deeply into her lower lip. She had heard of slavers who had ventured through the swamp in search of victims. Soon they would be in the country of chiefs accustomed to selling their people as slaves: and buying them. The English girl’s rarity would ensure that any chief would pay a great price for her. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. She had acted once on impulse and had failed. The next time she would act with forethought and cunning and would succeed.
African Enchantment Page 13
